


brimstone

by besselfcn



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Nonverbal Geralt, Trial Of The Grasses (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 19:55:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28962039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/besselfcn/pseuds/besselfcn
Summary: It is Vesemir who asks him -- and after all the time they thought they spent being careful.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 12
Kudos: 75





	brimstone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deerna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deerna/gifts).



> Thank you for asking for this little morsel, dee! <3

It is Vesemir who asks him -- and after all the time they thought they spent being _careful._

“It is done,” Vesemir says, as if the ringing silence after a cavalcade of inhuman screams was not enough to signal the end. Eskel stares at him in the doorway. His hands are curled into fists. His jaw aches from clenching. He feels, in every way, a wolf: snarling, cornered, desperate for blood on his teeth. 

And then Vesemir says, “He will need someone,” and Eskel feels the fight drain down his spine. 

“Can’t bear it yourself?” Eskel says. The words taste sharp and bitter even as he says them.

Vesemir is a statue. Something old; something immovable. “He will need _you_ ,” he says, and turns to go.

He does not need to ask Eskel to follow. He knows he will. 

*

For a week after the Grasses, Eskel recalls lying infirm in his bed and watching shapes move in the dark, buffeted by sensations so powerful he thought they would swarm in to crush him. He remembers little else. He certainly does not remember even thinking of being able to stand. 

But here now is Geralt at the edge of the hot springs where the masters have coaxed him, stood plainly on his feet. Eskel steps towards him; his eyes follow. Narrowed yellow slits, with the glassy gaze of a predator. 

The room smells of too many things. Of the acrid stench of vomit; of the sharp edge of fear. Of cold sweat and boiling salts. Of something like lust, when Geralt’s eyes alight on Eskel--but more primal than that, more _animal_. Something like hunger. 

“Geralt,” Eskel says, to see if there is any reaction. 

Geralt blinks once. Twice.

Eskel takes his arm to lead him into the bath. 

He uses no cloth or soap to scrub the shimmering sweat from Geralt’s skin; it would be too much right now, like metal barbs against his flesh. He uses only the palms of his hands, the points of his thumbs. They sink into bruised flesh like pushing on the pulpy skin of a dropped apple. 

Slowly, clumsily, Eskel does what he can to mould Geralt back into himself.

He rubs feeling into Geralt’s fingers where they have gone numb from how tight they made the restraints. He presses the base of his palm against where he knows the needle-marks have already closed, dissipating the last fragments of poison through Geralt’s bloodstream. He tips Geralt back, back, back, so that his hair splays out like a fan in the water. 

All the while Geralt is silent. Eskel does not think about whether he will ever speak again. He does not imagine when the last time he heard Geralt’s voice was. He does not consider whether the screaming that filled the keep counts as his last words. 

Instead he runs his fingers through the strands of Geralt’s hair. It grows now white at the base; it has for some months. But the edges still are a deep near-black brown; old now, with edges splitting. Someday soon they will need to be cut off. Someday soon Geralt may ask Eskel to do it for him. 

For now they float: suspended, and silent, and adrift. 


End file.
